


At Home in the World

by Mira



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam -- for all observers of The People were now named Sam -- pushed nearer with a languid roll of his flukes and let himself sink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Home in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Picfor1000](http://community.livejournal.com/picfor1000/) annual challenge

The sea hissed and fizzed, bubbles roiling to the surface. Deep tremors shuddered through the water, swells rose pushing the air over the surface of the water. The People paused, turned, and sent their messages in deep pulses to The Observer, who arrived as quickly as he could.

He rolled; one eye rose above the water. The People all had excellent vision above and below water, and his was exceptionally good. Messages from his curious family and friends trembled in the water but he didn't respond just yet; he waited. He backswam, watching as the swells grew larger and faster. This was the signal his family had tracked for generations beyond telling. And though he had witnessed this many times, and had heard of it since he was a calf, he slapped his pectoral fin in excited anticipation.

Then it rose, silver in the double moons' light, water streaming down its sides as it burst through the surface and into the air. Golden light peeped out from long narrow openings and wide rectangular ones, and when it seemed destined to leave the water in which he waited and watched, it slowed, quivered, and paused, floating as lightly as a reflection of a cloud. The People always found the emergence beautiful.

One opening grew brighter and a rush of melodic noise tumbled out to bounce across the surface of the water, then a bipedal land creature emerged. Rodney, The Observer saw, and swam nearer, unafraid and profoundly curious, for this was his responsibility: to witness.

"Sam," he heard. The same words he had heard many times before, as had his mother's brother, and before him, his mother's mother's brother. He rolled again to fix the creature in his vision. "Good timing."

"Who ya talkin' to, Rodney?" asked another creature, joining the first. John, he knew.

"Sam, the _flagisalis_, though, really, the Ancients should never be permitted to name anything."

"Hi, Sam," said John. "Lookin' good. So, Rodney, what are you eating?"

Rodney, held up a tiny skewer with krill upon it and offered it to the second. Sharing of food: a tradition among The People as well. John took a bite, glancing up at Rodney from beneath his lashes, and they both laughed, and bumped shoulders.

Sam -- for all observers of The People were now named Sam -- pushed nearer with a languid roll of his flukes and let himself sink. Their voices followed him as he rotated laterally until he was aligned vertically, flukes down, before slowly rising until his head was just beneath the surface. He could see the more clearly now; they leaned over a silvery railing, heads together as they ate and talked. "What's he doing?" John asked.

"How should I know? Am I a cetacean biologist now?" They both leaned further out, and The Observer rose enough to meet their gazes. "Jesus," Rodney murmured. "John?"

"I know, I know," John said, as he always did. "Um, hi?"

The Observer smiled, and felt the warmth of acknowledgment when the other two smiled back -- recognizable smiles, their lips upturned -- and a powerful sense of well-being rolled out from them. He sent gentle recognition to them, and affection, too, tinged by sorrow.

"I guess we did right by coming back?" John said, not quite asking.

Rodney made a gesture that The Observer had learned meant annoyed uncertainty. He spyhopped: swished his flukes once, rising slowly up and up before leaning to his center left and, nearly splashlessly, falling onto his side. He remained there, watching them watch him.

"That mean yes?" John asked, and they both laughed.

"I think so," Rodney said, and offered his skewer of food to John. Staring into Rodney's eyes -- Sam nodded to himself as he witnessed the power of direct gaze again, this time between the two others -- John licked his lips before accepting a bite. Sam could smell saltiness, and savoriness, and sweetness. The two above him rested against each other, sharing food and a deep look: among The People, their proximity and solemnity would indicate the formation of a life-long pairing. Sam -- not just as The People's Observer, but as himself -- always felt privileged to witness this moment. He lay quietly, letting the water buoy his great head, keeping one eye trained on the two. Among The People, what he was watching could last for hours: two males, side by side, stroking bellies with their pectoral fins while gazing into each other's eyes.

But The Observer knew they did not have those hours. He felt the deep reverberation, the vibrations pattering against his skin, troubling the water. He knew it was happening again, that this was the time, another iteration -- and then the two above him felt it, as they had so many times before.

"What's that?" John asked, standing abruptly. "What the hell is that?" Rodney tossed away the skewer; The Observer watched it light on the grey surface beside Rodney's feet where it jittered. _Now_, he thought, and backed away, still watching.

"Shit," Rodney said. "That fucking ZPM -- the one from --"

"I know," John shouted. "Goddammit!" He grabbed Rodney's arm and they turned, but it was too late.

The Observer used his flukes and pectoral fins to push himself away, further and further, while watching them closely. He heard muffled voices cry out, watched as the two were shaken to their knees, still clutching each other, and then the structure, so glorious in the brilliant moons' light, shimmied silver, trembling then tumbling, and it sank again, the throb of its existence fading, fading, fading from view, from this night, from this world, from existence. The water surged, a final wave rolling toward The Observer.

He turned, using the wave's power to push himself away, toward home. His pod was waiting for him, including his sister's son, the next Observer, and his partner was anxious; he could taste concern in the water.

The Observer sighed, a plume of regret exploding into the air above him. Already he looked forward to the next time he would greet them. Goodbye, he thought. Just for now, goodbye.

* * *

 

Prompt:

 

With thanks to [Springwoof](http://springwoof.livejournal.com) for assistance and advice.  
First draft completed 10 February 2010;  
Updated 13 February 2010  
Word Count: 1,000


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